“Oh, poor baby,” the neighbor cooed. “Is he sick?”
At home, Sophie thought the problem was solved. She bought special tear-stain wipes and cleaned his face twice a day. For three glorious weeks, Mochi’s face was a pristine, fluffy moon.
What followed was a marvel of miniature veterinary medicine. Dr. Lian held Mochi gently but firmly, while a technician tilted his head back. She took a tiny, blunt cannula—no bigger than an eyelash—attached to a saline-filled syringe. With a single, delicate motion, she inserted it into the pinhead-sized opening at the inner corner of Mochi’s eye.
She laughed and scratched behind his ears. “You’re not broken,” she whispered. “You just feel things more than other cats.”
Back at the vet, Dr. Lian flushed the ducts again. This time, the saline didn’t come out of his nose. It backed up, dribbling from the corner of his eye like a tiny, stubborn waterfall.
Sophie held her breath.
Sophie first noticed the problem when she went to kiss Mochi’s forehead. Instead of the usual soft, dry bump of fur, her lips met a damp, rusty streak beneath his left eye.
This time, it was both eyes. Mochi would sit by the window, watching birds with a tragic, weepy expression, as if each sparrow’s song broke his heart. Sophie tried warm compresses. She tried gentle massage along the side of his nose. She even held him over a steamy bathroom shower, hoping to loosen whatever was stuck.
